


I Miss You (Like you took a piece of me with you)

by Hankenstein



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Fisting, Light Dom/sub, Reunion Sex, Shepard is a sweet sweet service top, look those tags basically say it all ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hankenstein/pseuds/Hankenstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being on the run isn't easy. </p><p>Shepard takes a detour from that whole-saving-the-universe thing to track Miranda down. They've got a lot of catching up to do, and with things they way they are, not much time to do it. </p><p>Takes place during the events of ME3, with a little tweaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Miss You (Like you took a piece of me with you)

“Please allow me to transfer penthouse entry codes to your omnitool, Ms Paterson.”

Miranda pursed her lips. The VI was malfunctioning, she was sure of it. “No, I booked a room here on the bottom floor,” she insisted.

“I’m sorry, Ms Paterson. You are mistaken, and your room is in the penthouse suite. Please allow me to upload entry codes to your omni tool.” The bottom floor on Ilium was actual more like the basement floor; skirting the toxic gases near the planet’s surface, no windows to open, and the _cheapest_ in the building.

“But I can’t afford-” the words felt bitter in her mouth. Six months ago, on Cerberus credits, she absolutely would have been in the penthouse. Nothing but the best, you know.

“Ms Paterson, the room has been paid in full. Please allow me to transfer the entry codes to your omni tool.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. It was a trap, then. Why her potential assailant thought luring her up to the penthouse, thereby tipping her off, would make her an easier mark, she could not say.

“Very well.” She brought up the ‘tool, lowering her firewalls and accepted the codes, mind churning furiously.

She could no longer openly carry a weapon, not even on Ilium. She cut a distinct enough figure without it. Her biotics often had to be enough to get her out of trouble.

Still, she wore her cropped jacket a little longer, a little looser, and a tiny pistol against the small of her back, just in case. What would her would-be assailant expect her to do? How well did they know her? Was it a personal enemy, or a Cerberus goon sent to bring her to heel?

She still wasn’t sure if the Illusive man wanted to kill her or indoctrinate her, and she wasn’t about to let him catch hold of her tails and find out.

She rolled her shoulders as she boarded the elevator, shooting skywards, against the grain of her usual habits these days. Penthouses were not exactly subtle.

The building was mostly reinforced glass, no way around the outside of the building. She didn’t know it well enough to look into ducts or alternate methods of entry. With a strange pang, she wished that Thane were here. He would know what to do. Can’t kill a killer.

She swallowed as the elevator opened to her floor, rolling her shoulders, blue crackling under her skin when she saw the antechamber was empty. _I am a killer too,_ she told herself, but even her mental voice was tired, normally granite will chipped and crumbling.

Being on the run was… hard. It was so hard. She found herself constantly drawing on resources of energy running thin, pushing her formidable limits just to stay alive, ahead of the curve. She was so… tired. An ache that radiated from her heels to her belly, a need to stop, to be safe, seemingly travelling up her legs and resting in the base of her skull.

 _No energy for sneaking around then,_ she thought. Head on. _Either I’ve met my match, or they’ve met theirs._

She drew her pistol, (pathetic, really, after the automatics she’d been slinging at Shepard’s side) and shook her head to clear it, door to the suite opening as she approached.

Things must _really_ have been getting to her, because this was the first time in history she’d heard of an assassin or merc running a bath for their target. But that was undeniably the sound of water rising and sloshing coming from within the lush suite.

Miranda stepped in, eyes snapping back and forth, hair trigger pressure on the tiny gun. Blue roiling behind her eyelids, body strung taut with awareness.

Huge windows, higher than even the skycar traffic, furniture typical lush Ilium décor, bench tops and couches that could be concealing an opponent, two doors not including the one she just entered and-

Her finger squeezed and released with a motion like breath. A short figure stepped from one of those doors. It took Miranda a split second to see they were not on the offensive; it took another moment, after what felt like so long, to realise who it was.

“ _Shepard!”_ Miranda said brokenly, unable to release the gun even as the stocky woman walked into the room, heartbeat suddenly huge in her ears where before it had been deadly silent. “I nearly shot you!”

“I would have survived,” Shepard replied. Her own grin was reaching for a cheerful reunion, but she couldn’t hide the waver in her voice, echoing Miranda’s.

“I’m being serious!” Miranda snapped.

Leela Shepard gave a pointed look to the small caliber pistol in Miranda’s shaking hands. “So am I.”

Miranda dropped it with a clang on some ludicrously thick glass table, and strode across the room on long legs, throwing her arms around Shepard.

Arms came up automatically, palms flat to Miranda’s shuddering back.

“How did you- how did you find me? My covers-” she said, muffled into Shepard’s shoulder.

“Are intact. Liara found you.” Shepard’s hands cupped Miranda’s shoulder blades, feeling thinner then they should be. S _he was already a stick figure, this is, this is..._ Shepard cupped one hand to the back of Miranda’s neck, under a tangle of dark hair, just seeking purchase, seeking comfort, but it was no surprise when Miranda pulled her face from the platform of Shepard’s solid shoulder and suddenly they were kissing, sweet and fervent and _I’m so glad I found you_ and _don’t scare me like that ever again_.

They paused, foreheads touching, Shepard curtained in the fall of thick hair on either side of her face.

“Basements on Ilium, Lawson?” Shepard teased breathlessly. “I thought you’d be living it up. Isn’t that the point of being on the run?”

“I was, believe me.” She broke the embrace, turning and trying to get her breath back, the waves of adrenaline crashing onto a shore of relief. The end result was simply nausea.

“After I… after you… Anyway. I still had contact with Jacob. He was channeling me credits, contacts, information. He didn’t want to stay Cerberus any more than I, but we recognized the value of having him there. About a month ago he… went dark.” She glanced aside, face stony. She was worried about him. Just another worry on the steaming heap of them.

Shepard frowned. “I haven’t heard from him, but then again, I haven’t been looking.”

“Just me, then?” Miranda asked, smiling softly. “Anyone would think you have a soft spot for me.”

Miranda collapsed on the bench seat behind her. She felt the seat rearrange itself to better cushion her backside, and nearly rolled her eyes. Excess aside, she felt a grateful little sigh escape her lips.

“I’ve been tracking my father, as well as trying to keep abreast of Cerberus, and… I…”

Shepard, pointed features alert, had sunk to her knees and began to remove Miranda’s boots, sure hands activating the clasps. When the thigh-high material had split fully down the side, she eased each of Miranda’s feet out, face attentive.

“Shepard. What… what are you doing?” Miranda asked tiredly.

“Helping,” Shepard replied unhelpfully. “I’m listening. You can keep talking, if you want.” She stood, and taking both Miranda’s hands in her own, tugged her to now-bare feet.

The bathroom was huge, all made of some marbled stone with a blue-grey sheen, half of it taken up by a sunken tub. Miranda ears had not deceived her; it was steadily filling with water, nearly complete.

"This is ridiculous.” Miranda said. First the magic ass-cushions, now this. “Who is paying for this?”

“Alliance.” Shepard said cheerfully, and despite Miranda’s belligerent tone, she easily rolled her shoulders out of her short jacket as Shepard’s hands guided her to do so. Miranda’s arms didn’t seem to have the strength to do anything but concede. Shepard’s voice and demeanor had taken on that almost cheerfully aggressive flavor that came out whenever she thought _Operative Lawson_ had been taking poor care of herself. “Least they can do after keeping me locked up and my ship grounded for _six damn months.”_

Miranda hummed as Shepard went to work peeling her out of her suit. “Yes. I … I heard about that. Are you ok?”

Miranda felt the huff of air and could practically see Shepard’s wry smile behind her. “Don’t you worry about me.”

Her tone was final. So Miranda didn’t.

Naked, she let Shepard help her into the near-full tub, breathing out loudly as her rump found the stone seat, water just lapping her collarbones. She closed her eyes, barely listening to the noise of Shepard rattling around behind her.

Shepard stripped off her own clothes, civvies in deference to Miranda’s low profile situation, but rather than slide into the tub next to her (there was room for Shepard and probably half the specialist crew on the Normandy in the opulent tub) she sat behind Miranda, calves in the water and holding the tall woman between her knees.

“Get your hair wet for me,” she murmured.

“Leela-” Miranda started to protest, realizing what it was she intended. She must have had exhaustion seeping from her pores to have Shepard treat her like this; delicately, like sensitive machinery. Like she looked as bad as she felt.

“Shhh, just let me, ok?”

So Miranda acquiesced, letting Shepard work strong hands through her dark hair, bringing it to a soapy mess, washing it as though she were a child. It was an indulgence for both of them. It wasn’t exactly widely known, but Miranda loved people massaging her head. And with Shepard’s hair cropped short, she simply liked touching Miranda’s rich locks. It was a novelty she didn't deny herself.

She’d even found a bunch of hair… potions or something, on the bench of the suites bathroom, as well as a broad comb. Miranda, a small smile on her lips, settled her head into Shepard’s lap and let her comb rich oils through her hair, obediently ducking her head beneath the water between each one. Filters in the tub immediately cleared the residue each time.

Miranda floated, feeling as though her actual self hovered several inches out of her skin, sensation of Shepard’s hands on her scalp the only thing stopping her from dissipating entirely into the warm water. There was a thought, just beyond cognition and yet permeating everything, that maybe Leela got like this sometimes because she felt like she had a debt to repay.

Shepard had been in Miranda's care for almost two years, after all.

When it came time to get out, Miranda felt more than cared for. The bed was ridiculous, and huge, bigger than anything she’d treated herself to, even when still on Cerberus cred. There were more pillows than two people could ever make use of, and the coverlet and sheets felt like slippery liquid beneath their warm skin.

Miranda allowed herself a small huff of laughter at Shepard’s excess as she crawled under the covers with the compact woman.

Like it hadn’t been months, like there had been no one else in that time, their limbs twined together with practised ease. Like it was the most natural thing in the universe. Inch by glorious inch, Miranda felt that feeling of safety, the assurance that nothing was going to come carry her off into the night, suffuse her down to her core. It had been a long time since she’d felt this way.

As Miranda felt the heaviness of sleep steal over her, she had a thought. She shifted, kissing Shepard lightly and startling her out of the beginning of her doze.

“How long are you in town for?” She whispered. She felt Shepard’s hair, fluffed out from its own washing, tickling against her cheek

“Just tonight,” Shepard replied, sounding sad. “Go to sleep, Miri. You’re exhausted.”

Miranda shook her head and practically dove back in for another kiss. This one had all the intention the previous one lacked. Shepard made a little muffled noise of surprise. She found her lips parting, Miranda’s tongue seeking lightly between them, and it was like a blast straight to her sleepy brain. The fog of sleep was essentially banished, and Miranda sealed the deal by sucking Shepard’s lower lip between hers, and _biting._

Shepard made another small noise, this time more a decisive _oh,_ and  _oh, is this how it is going to be, is this where we are tonight?_

Shepard coiled one leg beneath Miranda, and flipped her onto her back. Miranda found the ease with which she pulled of such a maneuver undeniably sexy. Push came to shove, and thankfully it never had, she wasn’t sure which of them were stronger, but there was some so appealing about the… potential in Shepard’s solid form.

She put that solid form to use then, kneeling over Mirada’s supine body, one leg between hers, licking a long stripe between Miranda’s breasts, something almost feral in her movements now.

Miranda felt any lingering feeling of sleepiness disappear as Shepard’s mouth met hers.

God, but she’s _missed_ Shepard, every aspect of this, self-critical, beautiful woman. From the sober, pragmatic leader to the incorrigible caretaker to _this_ , this quick and sudden descent into someone powerful and desirous. She bit Miranda’s lips as easily as kissing them, and her whole solid body pressing Miranda into the mattress was humming with lust. Miranda sighed into Shepard’s mouth.

Shepard flicked her fingers over Miranda's nipples, barest edge of her trimmed nails making contact, and they hardened immediately, almost as though they were reaching for more sensation from Shepard’s teasing fingertips. She'd always been exquisitely sensitive there. She groaned, chills radiating out, already feeling hot and aching.

You wouldn't know, looking at Miranda, that this wanton, desperate woman lay under the surface. Even the lush curves, low cut and tempting, all served only to make her look harder, the kind of woman to tear you apart for even daring to desire her. Not all lovers found her this soft and yielding, begging to be touched and taken. That had been something she’d discovered with Shepard, or rather something they’d discovered together.

Kissing, biting, seeking mouths, kissing over six months’ worth of worry, of longing into each other, and then Shepard had her lips fastened around one hard nipple, quickly laving the tight bud with rough strokes of her tongue, giving Miranda the sensation she’d so cruelly withheld before.

Shepard had one hand pressing Miranda’s shoulder, hard into the bed, as though to stop her bucking upwards when the other hand parted her slick lips, finding her already wet and needy.

“You want me to fuck you,” Shepard said, voice low. It wasn’t a question. Miranda felt herself flush from the tight points of her nipples upwards.

“I didn’t- I don’t have any toys with me,” she replied, suddenly embarrassed.

Shepard grinned lopsidedly, and leaned in, biting Miranda’s pulse point with a mouth that still felt like it was still smiling.

“That’s ok,” she murmured. “We’ll do it the old fashioned way.”

Miranda’s only answer was a loosened breath, the tension in her posture melting away with the sigh.

Shepard was warming up to it, not becoming a character but rather becoming more solidly _herself_. She was a woman who was in her element here and _knew_ it _,_ steadily biting kisses down Miranda’s stomach. She was enjoying Miranda’s eyes on her, as they both so thoroughly disappeared into being the woman the other allowed her to be.

Shepard returned to the surface for a moment. Coming up to her knees, she grabbed two pillows in each hand. “Let’s make use of this finery.” She grinned and handed pillows to Miranda, on by one by one, and laughing, Miranda took them, arranging them around herself as fast as she could. By the time they was done, she reclined on a giant throne of satiny pillows.

The sun on Illium had dipped down below the horizon whilst the women had been in the bath. Neither had bothered to turn the lights on, and the end result was that the penthouse suite was lit by the shifting, dappled lights of neon and skycar traffic zooming by somewhere beneath the window. Miranda’s whole body tingled with anticipation, watching the play of light over Shepard’s skin, pale sprays of freckles across broad shoulders, small breasts.

They’d never managed anything quite like this on board the Normandy.

“Comfy?” Shepard raised her eyebrows.

Miranda bit her lip as she settled back. The feeling of laughter bubbling under the surface suddenly abated, replaced by something more serious. She went to say something equally impertinent, reached for her usual eloquence, but as Shepard put her hands on Miranda’s knees and gently encouraged her legs to part again, she simply nodded.

Shepard had teased before, light, attentive touching, trailing kisses, but now there was intention in her eyes as she settled between Miranda’s thighs, licking a single line up her centre before wrapping expert lips around Miranda, tongue insistently seeking her clit. She paused briefly, sucking on her own two fingers, slipping them easily inside her, no tease, fast, almost rough.

Miranda gasped, flung her head back into the mountain of pillows behind her. She knew why Shepard was moving like; she had a goal in mind, and it wasn’t getting Miranda off with her mouth.

Shepard’s own orgasm was… difficult. Impossible, some times. It had been that way for as long as Miranda had known her, since Shepard had been Project Lazurus, the universe’s savior, brought back from the brink for a cause higher than her. The fact that someone of Shepard’s… functionality had been left behind in that dead space over Alchera made her all the more determined in bed, determined to give what she no longer had herself.

The fact that Miranda was at once to blame for Shepard being inorgasmic _and_ often the recipient of the woman’s attentions was a fact she’d had to make her peace with a long time ago. Shepard certainly never seemed to hold Miranda responsible for it.

Shepard fucked her, slow and insistent, beckoning upwards with her fingers at the depth of each thrust, tongue lapping with slow sensuality, easing Miranda open, tongue almost a distraction as she pulled back, added third finger. By the time she added a fourth, determined mouth and fingers working her open, Miranda barely noticed.

She panted, breathing deep with each slick slide of Shepard’s hand, knuckles pressing into her lips and fingertips curling to her g-spot, all the while Shepard pressing her mouth to Miranda’s slit. It was overwhelming, it was too much, it had been too long.

“More?” Shepard muttered, glancing up, mouth slick.

“More,” she replied immediately. “But…”

“Lube?” Shepard finished. They’d danced this dance before.

Miranda nodded. Her cheekbones felt hot.

Shepard left her on the bed, limbs weak but supported atop her ridiculous mount of pillows. Of course the suite came equipped for such play; a recess near the head of the bed had not just lube but a variety thereof.

Shepard didn’t bother with her mouth this time. She took Miranda’s wrist in one hand, and held her hand firm to the mattress. There was no pretense of restraint here; Miranda could easily escape the grip. It was more about holding her steady than it was about holding her down, Shepard straddling once thigh and running a lube-slicked hand against Miranda cunt.

“Miri?” She said softly.

“Yes?” Miranda replied, watching Shepard’s eyes, suddenly tender.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Shepard said, not whispering. Shepard hadn’t whispered an endearment in years, Miranda suspected.

Miranda smiled. Somehow it was different when she said it. As she did, Shepard slid her fingers inside her again, all four held tight together, and _pressed_.

Miranda felt her breath catch in her throat, a tiny vocalization slipping out, a little grunt. Shepard kept the pressure, firm and filling, for a breath longer, then pulled back, fingers running up the wet lips to caress and tease at her clit again.

“Good, babe.” She kissed Miranda’s mouth, her neck, and Miranda felt woozy, limbs hot and liquid. “Keep going?”

“Yes, please,” Miranda breathed.

This time, it was Shepard’s whole hand, narrowed to a point, and Miranda felt the stretch, almost a burn, the intensity unbearable. She heard, as though from far away, her panting turn this time to a moan, long and grating. Her ass slid an inch on the satin sheets at the pressure, the choke point of Shepard’s hand pushing her backwards. She felt her ass slide again with a final push, then the pressure abated, Shepard slipping her hand out once more. Her fingers just teased at Miranda’s entrance.

“Good girl,” Shepard said firmly, and Miranda, who would have rolled her eyes at anyone else who dared say something so asinine to her, felt her cunt pulse around Shepard’s fingers at the words. 

Shepard shifted so she was kneeling more to Miranda’s side than between her legs, and fastened one hand to Miranda’s shoulder. _Now_ it was about holding her down, stopping her from slipping against the pillows.

“Touch yourself,” Shepard ordered.

Miranda’s hand, the one further from Shepard’s kneeling form, went to her clit, fingers slipping over it gently, unhurriedly. This was not the main attraction, merely a distraction. Her whole cunt felt hot, overly sensitive, and Shepard was fucking her with that same unhurried motion, four fingers and a thumb shining with lube and arousal in the dappled lighting from below.

Shepard’s short fingernails dug into Miranda’s shoulder and she pushed her other hand inside her.

There was that choke point again, her entrance stretching, almost a burn, fingertips of her own caressing her clit and Shepard’s fingertips against her g-spot, and it was too much, the noise she was making too loud and the sensation of Shepard’s whole slick hand inside her was too much. She was moaning, almost a sob, her whole body felt alight and she was going to-

Miranda felt her body _give_ and Shepard’s hand was practically sucked inside her and she breathed, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Shepard was kissing her again, hand off Miranda’s shoulder now running through her hair, kisses gentle and encouraging.

“You’re great, aren’t you babe, you’re the best,” Shepard’s word’s flowed around her, every sense heightened.

Miranda drew in a shuddering breath, nodding sluggishly.

“Keep touching that clit for me babe, that’s it, you’re amazing.” Miranda whimpered pathetically as she felt the intensity, the fullness of Shepard slowly moving inside her, pressing outwards inside her. Every brush of Miranda's own fingers against her clit had her gasping.

Miranda could  _feel_ it, that distant sensation of her own insides as Shepard curved the other hand into a loose fist. Shepard cupped Miranda’s cheek then ran her hand downward, and she gripped Miranda’s nipple in one firm pinch. The sensation ricocheted, intensifying with each wave as Shepard squeezed. Miranda wailed as she came, sound echoing of the suite’s high ceilings.

Miranda floated, eyes half shut and cheeks flushed. Her hands wandered downward, curious, tracing Shepard’s wrist where it disappeared inside her, marvelling at how wet she was. Shepard tilted her hand, sending another shudder, an aftershock through Miranda’s body.

Shepard bought Miranda off three more times, twice more as Miranda slipped wet fingers over her own clit and once without. Only then when Miranda was sweating, trembling in her arms did she murmur, “It’s too much, please I can’t-" and Shepard eased her hand out, caressing Miranda’s thighs, wet with sweat and come, with hands that were trembling too.

Miranda's head still swam, wandered with an aimlessness she didn't normally allow herself. Feeling her hair stuck with sweat to her back, her forehead, she distantly noted she'd have to wash it again. Her thoughts chased themselves merrily, spiralling downwards.

Almost as a way to ground herself, to steady herself, she crawled between Shepard’s thighs and got lost there. Just because Shepard couldn't come didn't mean that she couldn't feel pleasure, and Miranda gave it to her. The motions of Miranda’s mouth were an ebb and flow, lazy from exertions, not aiming for anything but to give, and give endlessly.

Eventually, they got rid of all but two of the pillows and found their way to sleep, arms wrapped around each other. Miranda felt safe for the first time in weeks. Maybe it was narcissistic to find safety in the arms of Shepard. In some ways Shepard was only still alive because of Miranda's ingenuity and determination. She couldn't bring herself to care. Never had. She'd had been called worse things than narcissistic before.

***

The sun came up well before either of them would have liked it too. Sure, they could have hit the opacity settings and kept sleeping... but neither was the kind to shirk her responsibilities. Miranda couldn’t afford to stay more than one night in a big centre like Illium. Shepard had pulled so many strings in order to disappear for a night, the whole puppet show was going to come down if she didn't return.

They got to pretend, for a morning, to slip into an easy domesticity that had been so briefly theirs before, on board the Normandy. They drank coffee in quiet morning regard. They brushed their teeth. Shepard invaded Miranda's space under the shower head. There were three other shower heads she could have chosen from, but of course she wanted the one Miranda had. Commander's quarters only had one, after all. 

But it was short lived, and eventually they had to say goodbye. Again.

The two women embraced, and met each other’s eyes. They both thought the same thing; it was like looking into a mirror, one made of iron and stoicism, and this time it was Miranda who cracked, because if anyone had taught her that there was no shame in needing someone, it was Shepard.

“I might not see you again,” she said, and swallowed. Every possibility, every hypothesis was contained in that single sentence.

Shepard nodded shortly. She wasn't angry with Miranda for being the one to say it, to admit it. Her own granite mirror slipped, and she replied. “I know.”

Miranda took the shorter woman into her arms again, unable to look into those honest eyes. “I love you,” she whispered into the fluff of Shepard’s hair. It didn't seem like enough. “I- I believe in you.”

Shepard sighed into Miri’s shoulder. Her breath was warm, and Miranda tried to fix the feeling in her memory.

“I love you too.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think fisting gets a bad rap as being this really brutal, dirty sex act. I mean, sure, it's not a beginner's move, but I think it is what you make it. 
> 
> Like most kink, I guess. 
> 
> Twenty internet points and a jar of bees to whomever can figure out how I decided what name to use for Miranda's alias. 
> 
> I've seen a bit of talk about the etiquette around this lately, so let me say; concrit welcome, so long as you engage with me like I'm a person, with feelings. (Coz I am!)
> 
> Anyway, I'm [ Hankenstein ](http://commander-diomika.tumblr.com/) on board the SSV Tumblr, too. Tune in for more categorisation of sex acts and brightly burning obsessions.


End file.
